


Put Out the Fire On Us

by andibeth82, enigma731



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Developing Relationship, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-24
Updated: 2014-08-24
Packaged: 2018-02-14 13:44:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2193948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andibeth82/pseuds/andibeth82, https://archiveofourown.org/users/enigma731/pseuds/enigma731
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Natasha is ex-KGB with a rap sheet longer and more detailed than Clint’s personal history, which he knows never translates to easy trust. Still, Clint’s long been in the business of second chances – that “don’t ask, don’t tell” mentality that let him survive in the circus and afterwards – and if there’s one thing that he’ll stake his life on, it’s that Natasha definitely deserves a second chance.</p><p>Clint just hopes that he can be the one to give it to her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Put Out the Fire On Us

**Author's Note:**

  * For [scribblemyname](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scribblemyname/gifts).



> Written for [this prompt](http://be-compromised.livejournal.com/412023.html?thread=7825015#t7825015) at the be_compromised promptathon.

5.

When Clint Barton takes in Natasha Romanoff, he’s not exactly sure he’s done the right thing.

A good thing, yes. A commendable thing, sure. A stupid thing, definitely, at least according to Fury and Hill and whoever else isn’t talking. But the _right_ thing? Clint decides he needs a little more time before he can fully answer that question.

Natasha is ex-KGB with a rap sheet longer and more detailed than Clint’s personal history, which he knows never translates to easy trust. Still, Clint’s long been in the business of second chances – that “don’t ask, don’t tell” mentality that let him survive in the circus and afterwards – and if there’s one thing that he’ll stake his life on, it’s that Natasha definitely deserves a second chance.

Clint just hopes that he can be the one to give it to her.

He isn’t allowed to haunt her bedside in Medical--turns out that disobeying direct orders does not, in fact, make Hill feel particularly charitable toward him--which is probably a good thing. He would probably end up saying something stupid, like _you’ll like it here, have you tried the cheeseburgers?_

Regardless, he spends the first two days she’s sequestered there stalking the hallways and annoying the nursing staff, until Sitwell personally orders him to maintain a minimum hundred-yard perimeter or else risk immediate reassignment to the arctic.

“But what if I hurt my hand?” Clint whines, waving it demonstratively in Sitwell’s face. “Money makers here. Might need medical attention.”

“ _Out_ ,” says Sitwell, though Clint thinks he detects some amusement under the stern tone, so he decides to count that one as a victory.

With no clear method of gathering intel on Natasha, he finds himself back to his default mode on the third day: shooting arrows at the range, trying to let as much time slip by as possible until the next thing that actually matters comes along.

It’s almost easy (almost) to take his mind off her when he’s shooting, losing himself in concentrating on targets and dummy stand-ups that have taken more than their fair share of his attacks throughout the year. The minutes turn into hours, the hours into a seamless blend, until his shoulder starts to ache and he realizes he’s been shooting steadily for at least half the day. A quick check at his watch shows that it’s almost dinner time, and he’s surprised no one has come to bother him in the space of time that he’s been holed up.

It’s not until he turns that he sees her, emerging from the shadows near the door. He feels his heart hammering in his throat, because while there’s a part of him that truly believes Natasha wouldn’t  _really_  kill him, not after all of this, the back of his mind can’t seem to let him forget what--or rather, who--he’s dealing with.

“Hello?” he calls out quietly, knowing that it’s a stupid move. They both know the other is there, but the last thing Clint needs is to scare her off by blurting out some dumb pick-up line that would inevitably escape his mouth if he let his brashness get the better of him.

“Subtle,” says Natasha, stepping out to the middle of the floor, the cover of the shadows abandoned.

It’s the first time he’s seen her since she stepped off the jet onto American soil. She’d been wearing a cocktail dress, then, the skirt ripped to tatters, makeup staining her face in sweat-soaked lines. Today she’s wearing a S.H.I.E.L.D. t-shirt and too large gym shorts, her face washed clean and her hair pulled back. She could be any young recruit, could practically be a carbon copy of himself not _so_  very long ago, and he isn’t sure why that makes his stomach twist the way it does.

Clint shrugs, falling instinctively back on humor. “Hey, you’re the spy. I’m just the dude with the bow.”

She nods, taking a few more steps toward him, her chin tipped upward as she levels her gaze with his. “And you _are_  impressive with it. That shot you curved around the center target? Really superb.”

His blood turns to ice then, his heart suddenly thundering in his temples. The shot she’s describing must have been at least half an hour ago, maybe even longer. He has no idea, he realizes, just how long she’s been watching, how long she’s been staring at his exposed back.

“Thanks,” he says a little hesitantly, deciding not to let on how much that unnerves him, even though he has an idea she probably already knows. He figures two can play at this game, and tries to lighten his tone. “Come here often?”

She grins a little crookedly at that, and Clint can’t decide if it’s endearing or terrifying--or maybe both. “I could get used to it.”

 _Not helping the icy blood thing_ , Clint thinks desperately while he tries to refocus himself. He takes a few deep breaths in the silence, still watching her closely. “So were the conditions in Medical that bad?”

Her smile grows a little bigger, though Clint still thinks she looks like she could kill someone if she wanted to.

“I’ve had worse.” She takes two more steps forward, and suddenly it seems like she’s _right there_ , scarcely three feet away from him, close enough to detect the subtle floral scent of the shampoo he knows Medical keeps as a courtesy. Somehow she’s crossed the whole room in the span of their conversation, and he hasn’t even realized despite his apprehension.

“Natasha--” he begins cautiously, but she silences him with a hand on his cheek, the pad of her thumb brushing feather-light along his lower lip. Clint shudders, a full-body tremor that’s equal parts fear and something else, something much more primal--the intoxicating thrill he’s always gotten from staring death in the face and daring it to come after him.

“You talk too much,” says Natasha, and then she’s kissing him, a little sweet and a little rough, her fingers curling insistently in his hair as she presses his back to the wall.

He opens his mouth to respond but all that does is allow her tongue to slip between his lips as she draws closer to him, pressing into him in a way that he feels can only be described as intimate. He gives himself a fraction of a second to think through how dangerous this is, how stupid this is, before kissing her back, realizing the moment he reciprocates that there’s something about her that fits--albeit in a strange, dangerous way that could probably get him killed.

Natasha lets her lips linger on his for a moment more before she pulls away and there’s a fire in her eyes that makes her look like she could snap his neck at any moment.

“Like I said, you talk too much,” she says, before her lips split apart in a grin.

“What are you doing?” asks Clint, because suddenly it occurs to him that her bravado reminds him far too much of himself at the beginning, all rough edges and a desperate need to please people, to earn something like stability for himself. He can’t deny the part of his brain that’s still urging him to forget his reservations, to just dive into whatever this is. But the larger part of him, the part that’s never been able to go along with injustice--not even for his own benefit--insists that would be a mistake.

He sees a flicker of surprise in her eyes at that, though she brushes it off as quickly as it’s come, the playful facade instantly back in place. “Shutting you up. And repaying you. I’m good at multitasking.”

“I…” He swallows, and suddenly more than his hands feel clammy. “This isn’t what you want right now.” He pauses, trying to regain his composure. “This isn’t what _I_  want right now. We’re still getting to know each other.”

“No?” She raises an eyebrow. “I thought we knew each other pretty well after you didn’t kill me.”

“It doesn’t work that way,” Clint says as patiently as he can. “It’s--this isn’t a payment.”

“That’s exactly what it is,” says Natasha, letting her hand slip down to rest on his arm. He shifts a little under her touch, and knows she hasn’t missed the effect she’s having on him. “And you _do_  want it. But maybe you’re looking for a different type of currency.”

“No,” says Clint, trying to get his wits about him, trying to be forceful. “I don’t want you to repay me. I don’t want you to think you owe me anything.”

He isn’t getting through, though, or she isn’t going to give him the satisfaction of knowing if he is.

Natasha just smiles and pats his shoulder, almost charitably. “I’ll figure it out.” She turns and disappears out the door before he’s even managed to consider a response.

* * *

4.

A month passes, and slowly Clint starts to become cautiously optimistic that maybe he made the right choice after all.

He still can’t read Natasha, as hard as he tries--she’s an enigma wrapped in unpredictability, half the time seemingly understanding of what’s expected of her in this new environment, and the other half of the time acting on her own agenda. Despite that, he finds that he enjoys spending time with her, even if other agents look at him strangely, even if he still has slightly irrational worries that he’s going to wake up with a garrote around his neck when he least expects it.

At least she seems to have given up on the unwanted affection part of their burgeoning partnership, and he’s not sure whether he feels relief or regret about that. He’d be lying to say he doesn’t find her attractive, that there isn’t a part of him that hopes that, at some point, this could be a thing that includes sex. But it’s all too new for Clint to think about, and so when she backs off trying to come on to him, he tells himself he’s okay with that - at least, for now.

He’s sitting in his quarters on base, reading over the reports he’s neglected for the past two weeks when the door swings open to reveal her slight frame. Clint jumps, having begun to drift a little toward sleep. It’s well after midnight, and the last thing he’s expecting is company, plus he’s pretty damn sure his door should be locked. He has a momentary debate with himself over whether he ought to find the idea of Natasha with unrestricted access thrilling or terrifying, then sighs.

“I see you’re up too,” he tells her by way of greeting. Though he’s growing more comfortable with her, most of their rapport still feels like a game, a competition of sorts.

She smiles as she closes the door behind her and crosses over to the table where he’s seated, that sly grin that’s begun to make his stomach dip as soon as he sees it. “I have a present for you.”

“A present, huh?” He keeps their eyes locked. “Like the one you tried to give me at the gym?”

She doesn’t answer at first and it’s dangerous, he realizes, challenging her like this when they’re both in vulnerable positions. But he somehow can’t help it, like it’s natural for him to banter with her, to goad her when they’re both still trying to figure each other out.

“Not exactly,” she replies and he can’t decide if he’s relieved or a little disappointed that she’s seemingly given up on that for good.

“Well, what is it? Enlighten me.” He remembers a beat too late that she doesn’t have the clearance to view the reports that are open on his desk, very smoothly scrambles them into a pile and shoves them into a manilla folder, hoping she won’t choose to turn that into an interrogation. He doesn’t want to lose the fragile trust he thinks he’s begun building with her, but he doesn’t want to lose his job, either. Doesn’t want to be the one to blame if anything goes wrong. He’s responsible for her recruitment, after all. Now she’s forever _his_  liability.

Natasha raises an eyebrow as she crosses the room, but she chooses not to comment, much to his relief. Instead she sits on the edge of the table, which puts her legs very distractingly in his line of vision. The tight yoga pants she’s wearing don’t help either, and he has the feeling she knows exactly what she’s doing.

“Here,” she says, the cheeriness of her tone making his skin crawl a little. She pulls out a phone he recognizes as S.H.I.E.L.D. issue, a standard piece of equipment for the field. Only she’s not supposed to have one for at least a few more weeks, he’s absolutely certain.

“Whoa,” he says warningly, holding up his hands. “Where’d that come from?”

“Where do you think?” she asks, crossing her legs slowly in a manner that Clint thinks is entirely unnecessary, but that he finds he can’t look away from. He swallows uncomfortably.

“I don’t...you’re not…” He stops, composing himself. “You stole that, didn’t you?”

“No,” Natasha corrects, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I borrowed it.”

Clint shakes his head, staring down at the phone, and then back up at Natasha’s face. “Are you planning use it to kill me?” he asks finally, letting the wariness creep into his tone.

Natasha actually smiles at that, at least, in as much as Clint can consider that strange, smirking grin some sort of smile.

“I wanted to show you this,” she says, shoving the phone at him and then sitting back, looking pleased with herself. She swipes a finger across the touchscreen, presses a few icons before handing it over.

Clint takes the phone and glances at the screen apprehensively, unable to shake the feeling that the thing might blow up in his hands, or that something might pop out to bite him. It’s nothing that overt, though -- He finds himself looking at some cryptic lines of writing, a sequence of numbers, another of seemingly random characters, and then what he vaguely recognizes as programming code.

“What is this?” he asks cautiously, still feeling as though he’s walking into a trap.

“Your new fortune,” she says smugly, but doesn’t explain any further.

“Natasha,” he says tiredly, “it’s the middle of the night. Just tell me what it is.”

“I just told you,” says Natasha, giving him a look like he is an exceptionally slow child. “The key to your new fortune. Account number and password for Stark Industries. Plus a nice little computer virus that will automatically transfer a designated portion of their daily profits to you.”

Clint freezes, almost dropping the phone into his lap. “Natasha…”

“What?” she looks confused, and at the same time, immensely proud of herself, and he gets the feeling he should be congratulating her for this kind of thing except he can’t do that at all.

“You can’t do this,” he says finally, because he doesn’t know what else to say, and he feels equal parts both impressed and scared at the skills that no one--not even Fury, apparently-- realized she possessed when they brought her in. Natasha frowns, clearly concerned by his response, which Clint figures is not at all what she had expected.

“Since when do you not want money?” she asks seriously, as if she can’t understand why he would turn down something so obvious, and he shakes his head.

“It’s not that I don’t want money…” He trails off again, staring at the phone, his mind working to process the events of the evening. “You’re a hacker too?”

She shrugs, playing with her fingers, and throws him another smirk, one that basically confirms his suspicions and sends a stab of something hot through his stomach. “I guess I’ve been called as much.”

“You’re a hacker too,” he repeats, still trying to wrap his head around this development, to decide whether she might be bluffing. It seems unlikely, though--he can’t figure out a motive for her to be lying, not when he finds her plenty intimidating already. Then again, he would not stake his life on his ability to understand Natasha Romanoff.

“What?” she asks coyly, leaning toward him at a precarious angle that doesn’t seem to affect her flawless balance at all. “That wasn’t in my file?”

“Natasha,” he bites out, imagining the implications this could have for S.H.I.E.L.D., for himself.

She sighs, looking disappointed in him. “That’s no way to respond to a gift, Barton. I thought you weren’t afraid of me.”

“I’m not,” Clint bites out roughly, with slightly more force than he means to. He takes a breath, steadying his emotions, and shoves the thought out of his mind, that maybe one day this could actually be a useful thing, if they ever got past the point of tiptoeing around each other’s trust issues.

“Then prove it,” Natasha says, gesturing towards the phone. “Take the money.”

Clint shakes his head. “No,” he says firmly, pushing the phone back into her hands. “That’s not how it works. I don’t need a gift as a payment, and I certainly don’t need it to be something that could get my ass fired when I’m trying to prove to everyone that you can fit in here.”

“Then what is it you want?” she asks, her composure slipping for the first time tonight, a hint of frustration edging her voice and sharpening her movements as she snatches the phone back from him. “Or is it that you want me to figure it out? You get off on making me work for it, is that it?”

Clint huffs out an exasperated breath, trying to keep himself calm. “I don’t want anything, Natasha. I want--I want you to go figure out what _you_  want. I want you to stop playing games.”

She gives him a look he can’t quite read, then places the phone face down on the table and gets smoothly to her feet.

“Everybody plays games,” she says impassively, then turns and leaves again before he can work out what to do.

* * *

3.

According to Clint, it should’ve been the other way around. It should’ve been him bleeding out in the safe house, it should’ve been him who took the bullet, it should’ve been him who made the dumb decision that had the potential to cost him his life.

It shouldn’t have been Natasha, but it was.

He still doesn’t understand it, other than the fact that had she not jumped in front of him, pushed him out of the way, he would most certainly be dead. Clint’s pretty sure it’s a miracle she’s not dead herself. As it is, she’s pale and sweating on the edge of the pitiful little safe house cot, her left thigh bleeding at a rate that’s making him seriously concerned about her femoral artery.

“Jesus,” he breathes, digging through the closet until he locates the first-aid kit placed there by S.H.I.E.L.D. It’s small, far from the hospital care she really needs, but with any amount of luck, it’ll keep her going until their evac can arrive.

“Calm down,” Natasha grates, as he sets the kit beside her. She’s clearly in pain, but she seems to think she might be able to hide it from him, that she _ought_  to be hiding it from him, and that thought alone frustrates him more than anything else.

“Pants off,” he says curtly, holding out his arm to help her balance as she struggles to peel down her blood-soaked fatigues.

“Such a romantic,” she says wryly, sinking back to the bed as soon as she’s finished. “Are you going to ask me to take off my shirt, too?”

“I don’t think we’ve reached that stage of our relationship yet,” he returns with as much snark as he can muster. He doesn’t really feel like joking, he feels more like screaming from frustration and worry, feels like shaking her just so he can ask her what the hell she thought she was doing jumping in front of a gun like that. But the banter helps him stay focused on the task at hand and so he lets himself slip into it anyway.

“Pity. I was really hoping for a strip tease,” she says dryly, stifling a cough as he presses some spare towels to her leg in an attempt to stop the bleeding, which is making him more nervous by the minute.

“Don’t move,” he says roughly as she jerks slightly, even though he’s aware she can’t help it with the amount of pain she’s in. She groans.

“So bossy,” she mutters, but he can tell she’s continuing her attempt to keep her pain hidden.

“Maybe I like being bossy,” he counters as he holds pressure on her leg, hoping that at least talking will keep her conscious.

“Maybe?” she asks, grimacing at the weight of his hands against her wound. “As if there was ever any question about that?”

Clint sighs, realizing she needs more than just pressure on her leg. She’s already shivering, her shoulders shaking near convulsively, and he doesn’t like the sweaty palor of her skin. The safe house is dismally cold as is; the last thing either of them needs is for her to go into shock. He gets to his feet, keeping his hands on the towel as he meets her eyes.

“I need you to hold onto this while I get more supplies,” he tells her as evenly as he can, fighting the urge to apologize. That won’t be productive for either one of them. “I know it hurts like hell, but you have to keep applying pressure or you’re going to bleed out. Keep your full weight on it.”

Natasha doesn’t respond, just pushes his hands out of the way and bears down on the towel, setting her jaw as she meets his gaze fiercely, almost a challenge, even as he can tell she’s blinking back tears of agony.

He sighs. “Good. I’ll be right back.” Clint hopes to god that she can keep it up without passing out or giving in, and he moves as quickly as he can into the other room, gathering blankets, and quickly mixing a packet of S.H.I.E.L.D.-issue electrolyte powder into a glass of water. When he comes back, he’s relieved to find that she’s still alert, though he can tell she’s fading fast, struggling to keep herself conscious while valiantly pressing the towel to her wound.

“I need you to drink this,” he says, sitting down beside her on the bed and praying she doesn’t fight him, because he doesn’t think he has the energy at this point. “It’ll help keep your body from going into shock.”

She glares at him as if she wants to refute but she doesn’t, instead nodding slowly and allowing him to help her drink. “And what now?” she asks in a shaky voice when she’s done. He can’t tell if it’s from the shock or the draftiness, but it doesn’t help his concern.

“I gotta clean that wound. At least just enough so I can get you stable,” he says, putting a blanket around her shoulders. “If I take over with the towel, can you hold the blanket? I want you to try to keep warm.”

She nods again, and he wonders how much pain she’s really in if she’s not bothering to refute his orders anymore.

“Why did you do it?” he asks quietly, more to himself than her as he switches up a blood soaked towel for a cleaner one.

The bleeding is starting to slow, which at least makes him feel marginally better about the likelihood that the bullet has missed her femoral artery. It’s a relatively clean wound, he realizes as he wipes the blood away. The shot’s gone straight through, clear entry and exit points visible. He thinks for a moment about stitches, but he’s pretty sure it’s too deep, and still bleeding too much. Instead he opts for a pressure bandage, trying to ignore her pained gasp as he gets the thing on.

“Lie back,” he instructs, waiting for her to stretch out on the cot before using the towels and a pillow to elevate her leg. “We want to keep it above your heart. Slow the bleeding.”

“I understand basic first-aid,” she snaps, cutting him off.

For a moment Clint feels a flare of frustration, is about to chastise her for being so confrontational when he’s only trying to help. But then he gets to his feet, catches sight of the way her hands are twisted white-knuckled in the sheets, tears of pain drying on her cheeks.

“Hey,” he says gently, sitting on the edge of the bed and resting a hand on her arm. “Look at me.”

She turns her head slowly, finding his eyes, and he smiles a little sadly. “I got you, okay? I’m going to make sure you get out of here. I promise.”

“Shouldn’t make promises you can’t keep,” she tries to joke, but he hears the way her voice cracks, fresh tears of pain spilling over as another wave of pain jolts through her body unexpectedly.

“Think I’ll take my chances,” he says, still holding onto her. He moves his hand to her hair, brushing wet strands of red off her forehead, wiping her cheek with the base of his thumb.

“You never answered my question,” he says after a moment. “Why you took the bullet.”

She bites down on what he assumes is another bout of pain, and he strokes her arm in lazy, gentle strokes until her breathing slows.

“Because that’s what partners do,” she says in a voice so quiet he can barely hear her. “And because you would’ve died.”

He’s not quite sure how to respond to that, how to take what he can tell is her very genuine answer in contrast to a relationship that, for the most part, has so far been a game of trust, a lot of sarcastic banter and more than a few strange instances. He swallows down his emotions and moves closer to her on the bed, offering another smile.

“Well, thank you,” he says quietly, and he’s not sure when this shift happened between them, this strange movement from strangers to people who are almost on the same level of understanding, but right now, he doesn’t really care. “Thank you for saving my life.”

* * *

2.

They’ve scarcely been back for three weeks when Clint receives word that he’s being sent to São Paulo. The mission is routine enough, surveillance and bust on a drug cartel S.H.I.E.L.D.’s been monitoring for months. He’s filling in for an injured member of S.T.R.I.K.E., an assignment he’s had plenty of times before, given his long and colorful history of being unable to work with a partner for more than a few weeks at a time.

“Just temporary,” Sitwell assures him in the hall after the debrief. “Romanoff’s still recuperating, and Rumlow needed an extra body.”

Clint shrugs, feigning disinterest, though in truth he’s relieved to hear that confirmation, to know that he won’t have to fight anyone over having Natasha restored as his partner when she’s ready to be in the field again. “And you’re telling me this why?”

Sitwell gives him a smug little smile. “Just wanted to be perfectly clear that she’s still your responsibility. Your liability.”

Clint salutes him smartly as he heads off toward his quarters to pack. “Noted.”

He’s still mulling over Sitwell’s words when he pushes open the door to his room, surprised to find Natasha sitting on his bed.

“Hi,” he says a little sharply, because he hasn’t expected her to be out of bed, much less in his room. Since patching her up in the safe house, their relationship has evolved into something more tangible, something Clint could describe as friendship, though they’ve still kept their distance when it comes to certain things - including personal space.

“Hi,” she returns, seemingly ignoring his tone. “What’s with the bag?”

“The--what?” He looks down, forgetting that upon walking inside, he’s absently grabbed his duffel off the dresser. “Oh. I’m being sent to São Paolo.”

“São Paolo?” She looks at him, confused. “Why didn’t I hear about this?”

“Because,” Clint says, starting to shove some spare shirts into his bag. “You’re not going. Fury’s orders.”

She stands up so quickly that Clint has to rush forward to steady her, cursing silently as he eases her back down onto the bed.

“What do you mean I’m not going?”

Clint stares at her, wondering if this is another game, or if she’s truly playing dumb for the hell of it. “Come on, Natasha. You’ve been out of the field since we got back. You’re still healing, you can barely walk without your crutches. There’s no way they’re going to send us back out together until you’re better.”

“So they’re sending you out alone?” asks Natasha, though he suspects she already knows the answer, has probably been prying in the file if she’s here. The timing is just too convenient otherwise, and it really isn’t like her to break into his private space, abilities notwithstanding.

“With a team,” he corrects, trying to continue packing though he can feel her gaze burning holes in the back of his neck. “You know, I _was_  on a team before you came along.”

She says nothing to that, just continues to sit silently, like a particularly judgmental Sphinx guarding his bedroom.  

Clint sighs when he can’t stand the tension anymore, turning to face her. “What’s this really about, Natasha?”

She shakes her head again, and for the first time he considers the possibility that she doesn’t really know either. “I don’t like it.”

“Seriously?” Clint raises an eyebrow, because that’s not the answer he’s expecting at all. “To be honest, I thought you’d be glad to get me out of your hair for a few days.”

The fact that she doesn’t answer at first tells him more than he feels he has a right to know, and she shrugs. “I just don’t like it. If I can’t go with you, then I want you to stay.”

“What, afraid I can’t take care of myself?” Clint asks sarcastically, rolling his eyes.

Natasha glares. “Yes, actually. Because you did such a great job last time.”

“That’s what Rumlow’s for,” Clint replies smoothly, before pausing. “Actually, I’d rather push him into the path of a bullet, now that I think about it. Probably wouldn’t even hit him. His enormous ego would get in the way.”

Natasha makes a face. “I don’t trust him,” she says bluntly, crossing her arms. “It should be me.”

Clint sighs. “What, you want to go so you can pull more heroics? Because you still think you owe me some kind of life debt? Stop, Natasha. Take care of yourself.”

She gives him a hard stare for a very long breath, then sets her jaw. “Because if you don’t come back, what do I have?”

He blinks, genuinely surprised by the weight of those words, by the vulnerability in her face. A moment later it’s gone, replaced by a flare of anger as she gets to her feet. The crutches prevent her usual quick vanishing act, though, and Clint shakes himself free of his shocked paralysis, catching her arm.

Natasha freezes, meeting his eyes again with a look that makes his stomach twist.

“I’m coming back,” Clint promises, with all the conviction he can muster. “Natasha, I am coming back.”

She shakes her head and jerks her arm away. “I’m holding you to it. Don’t let me down.”

* * *

1.

In Clint’s mind, Medical is pretty much the worst place he can think of, and although he’s had his fair share of bad experiences in life, he thinks he would be hard pressed to say any of them topped the amount of times he was forced to stay sequestered in a hospital bed.

It’s not so much the dicomfort that annoys him, or even the food or the doctors, but the fact that he’s isolated with no one to talk to, and no real way to amuse himself outside of watching mindless television and trying to sleep. Fury’s dropped by to make sure that he’s okay, and Hill has done the same, and even Sitwell’s popped in to basically roll his eyes.

He’s lying in bed, trying and failing to sleep for the umpteenth time in 24 hours when he hears the door open, and although his eyes are closed he recognizes the pattern of feet against the floor, can just faintly smell the fruity scented hand sanitizer she likes to use in lieu of the one Medical mandates.

“I’m awake,” he mumbles, opening his eyes to meet Natasha’s face.

“It’s about time, Sleeping Beauty,” she replies, by way of greeting. There’s a hardness in her voice that is not entirely unexpected, though it makes his stomach tighten instinctively.

“I’ve _been_  awake,” he amends, his voice verging on a whine. In truth he’s been finding it nearly impossible to rest, because apparently he’s hit the concussion lottery on disrupted sleep this time. He feels like his skin is crawling with adrenaline, his stomach in anxious knots, though he can’t put any words to the reason. In fact he can’t focus on much of anything at all, his thoughts lost in the skittish fog of head injury. All he wants is a distraction, or a way to lose himself for a while, but so far that hasn’t been forthcoming in Medical.

“You jumped off a building,” says Natasha, crossing her arms over her chest and giving him a look that says she’d be contemplating giving him her own set of bruises were he not already so impressively battered.

“Yeah, but my fall was pretty spectacular, if I remember correctly,” he says, managing a smile, before pausing. “Come to think of it, everything’s a little hazy.”

“Of course everything’s a little hazy,” Natasha snaps, and given her expression, he’s only half surprised at the sharpness of her voice as it resonates throughout the room. “You jumped off a building and gave yourself a concussion and almost broke your neck. You’re lucky to be alive.”

Clint winces at the outburst, silently admitting to himself that her anger isn’t entirely unwarranted.

“Guess that means a get well gift is off the table, huh?” he asks a little helplessly.

Natasha sighs in frustration, but he thinks there might be a hint of a smile trying to find its way onto her lips. “Don’t think the fact that you’re finally conscious will get you off the hook, Barton. You scared the shit out of me.”

For a moment Clint just blinks at her dumbly. He’s fairly certain the strange giddiness rising in his chest is just the result of the concussion--or he tells himself that, anyway. Still, he can’t quite seem to force the feeling back down, can’t stop the words from spilling out of his mouth, a silly grin twisting his lips. “Agent Romanoff. Did you watch me while I was sleeping?”

The indignation in her eyes flares at that, and she sets her jaw deliberately, fixing him with a steely gaze. “Someone had to make sure you didn’t do anything else idiotic. Anything _more_  idiotic.”

“You watched me,” he insists, his voice a gloating lilt now. For some reason the image of her visiting Medical voluntarily, just for _him_  warms Clint, makes him feel almost weightless. “While I was sleeping.”

“You’re concussed,” says Natasha, in a tone like she’s talking to a very small child. “You’re not thinking rationally. And I am still mad at you.”

“I _scared_  you,” Clint says gleefully, unable to help himself. “You don’t _do_  scared.”

“I will end you,” she growls.

Clint closes his eyes, humming softly to himself with a small smile. "I missed you," he says.

Natasha purses her lips together.

"You were unconscious," she returns, and he can tell she's trying to keep her voice steady. Clint shakes his head before forgetting it's probably not the best idea.

"Yeah but I'm not unconscious now," he says, watching her face, the way she bites down on her lower lip.

"And what are you suggesting?" She asks slowly. "That I hit you over the head to remedy that?"

Clint shrugs. "I was lonely."

“Good,” says Natasha, as if she hasn’t heard any of what he’s just said. “I’m glad we agree. Let’s see, there’s a good assortment of heavy objects here.” She gestures to the thick file folder he belatedly realizes must be one of his medical charts. “How about I use that?”

Clint blinks. “What?”

“To hit you over the head,” she clarifies, sighing exasperatedly. “It was a joke, Barton.”

“I said I _missed_  you,” Clint protests, the fact that she’s apparently trying to make light of the situation now making his stomach lurch painfully. “And that I was lonely.”

“And I said you scared me,” she counters, the hard edge returning to her voice. “But if you want to make this into a game, I can play too. I can beat you at it.”

“It’s not a game,” he says fervently, his heart suddenly aching to make her believe him. “It’s never been a game with you.”

Natasha pauses, her eyes narrowing slightly, and he sees the way her throat constricts.

"Natasha," he says, his voice turning serious. "I--" He stops himself from saying what he knows will probably make things worse, going over the words in his brain. "I'm serious."

She looks at him as if seeing him for the first time, her eyes bright in a way he thinks he's never seen, at least not so openly.

"You really scared me," she says quietly, looking away, her voice cracking.

Clint scoffs gently. "You think I'm letting you off the hook that easily? You're stuck with me, Romanoff."

“You promised to come back,” she insists, her shoulders still squared, the line of her jaw almost painfully tight.

“And I’m here,” says Clint, though he knows this isn’t exactly how he meant it, how she must have taken the promise. She has never had a partner, he realizes, never even had a friend. She has never had anyone to rely on, no one to give her a home.

She just stares at him, her gaze still hard.

“Hey,” he says softly, sitting up a little and holding out a hand. “I came back, Natasha. Come here.”

She hesitates for a moment longer, then crosses to the side of his bed, her gait still slightly uneven, though she’s walking without crutches now. She sits heavily on the edge of the mattress, lets him run his fingers through her hair, closing her eyes for a moment and exhaling shakily.

“Come here,” Clint repeats, leaning forward to wrap an arm around her shoulders. It feels as though she crumbles, then, her stubborn resolve shattering as she curls into him, holding on tightly.

"I came back," he says gently, letting her hold onto him. "I'll always come back."

"You know how much I need you to keep that promise, right?" She asks, her head tucked into his arm. Clint smiles.

"Yeah, I do," he says, hugging her tighter, feeling safe and warm and comforted for the first time in forever. "I really do."

* * *

+1

Two weeks after they’re both pronounced medically fit, they get word that they’re being sent to Berlin. The assignment makes Clint think of Captain America, of all the great war heroes he’ll never be. The mission isn’t anything they can’t handle, but somehow the combination of recent events and the location makes him feel small, human, and very mortal. He’s sitting at the table in his quarters, reading over the mission brief and trying to convince himself to start packing, when he registers Natasha coming into the room.

"Hey," he says warmly, turning around. He's still not used to the fact that she's a presence in his most private space, staying over on more than one occasion, but the more time he spends with her the more he realizes how much he likes having her around.

"Hey," she says, wrapping her arms around his shoulders from behind, kissing him gently on the neck. This is new, too, this random display of affection that's gentle and not forced or awkward, and he's finding he likes this new development even more.

“You packed already?” asks Clint, surprised to see her again so soon after the briefing. It’s been scarcely thirty minutes, though he knows Natasha is nothing if not efficient.

She nods. “You’re not?”

Clint sighs. “Not even started.”

“Well,” says Natasha, her hands still resting on his shoulders, “when half your clothes are in a pile on the floor, I guess I can see how that might be difficult.”

“Not true,” he says indignantly, but he’s smiling as he turns around. “Some of my clothes are in my bag.”

Natasha raises her eyebrows, dropping her voice. “Some.”

“Yeah.” Clint gestures over his shoulder, to the spot on the floor where he knows his bag is sitting, and starts counting off on his fingers. “I have one pair of socks, underwear, and one shirt. And my passport,” he adds, leaning into her as she moves her hand over his upper body.

“You know, you should really work on your procrastination. It’s not becoming in a Level Five S.H.I.E.L.D. agent.”

“I was reading reports!” he returns with a bit of a huff. “You know, actually doing something useful instead of just watching television or something. And anyway, we can’t all be master packing ninjas.”

“No,” she agrees. “But if you think I’m letting you go into the field with only one clean pair of underwear again, you are sadly mistaken.” Natasha straightens and crosses the small room to his mostly-empty dresser, rummaging through the drawers.

“They aren’t in there,” says Clint, getting to his feet with a sigh, mostly because he isn’t sure what she’ll find if she keeps searching, and that thought still makes him uneasy. He turns instead, pointing to the clothes on the floor. “That’s the clean laundry pile. Over there is the dirty one.”

Natasha throws him a look of disdain. “I don’t know how you ever lived without me. For that matter, I don’t know how you ever lived, period.”

“Speak for yourself --you only started coming over two months ago,” Clint retorts, feeling a little calmer as she moves away from the dresser and starts to go through the pile of clothes on the floor. He walks over to where she’s bent down, intending to at least help her sort through the things, caught off guard when she stands up without warning and pushes him against the wall.

“Jesus --Natasha -”

The rest of his words are cut off when she kisses him roughly, her hands finding purchase against his shoulders, digging her fingers into the curve of his arm.

“Natasha,” he gasps, when she comes up for air still pinning him against the wall and now grinning like an exceptionally satisfied hyena. “Natasha, what are you doing?”

She raises an eyebrow. “You really have to ask?”

“Yes,” he insists breathlessly. “Yes, I--I need you to tell me why. What you want here. Because the last time I asked, you said you wanted to repay me. And I--I can’t have that. You don’t owe me anything. And I want so much more than that.” He swallows hard, instantly regretting the last, feeling as though he’s just showed her every last exposed nerve, as if he didn’t already do that months ago.

Natasha just smiles, though, bringing one hand down to touch his cheek lightly. “Baby, all I want here is _you_.”

“Yeah?” Clint asks quietly, almost breathlessly, though there’s a part of him that feels like he’s known that all along, the same way he’s known he hasn’t exactly kept his feelings about her as hidden as he thinks. Natasha smiles a little wider.

“Yeah,” she says, leaning forward to kiss him again, this time tender and more fully, letting both hands rest on the side of his face as she pulls him closer, before breaking away again. “I don’t want this to be something I owe you. And I don’t want to miss my chance with you because you still think I don’t know you, and then you go and get blown up by a stray bomb in a foreign country when I’m not looking.”

“Hey, I stay away from bombs,” Clint protests, bringing his hands to her neck, feeling the softness of her skin under his coarse hands. “Now, roofs on the other hand…”

Natasha laughs lightly, bowing her head just enough so that her hair brushes the top of his collarbone, and when she looks up again, her eyes are dancing. “Shut up, Barton. Shut up and kiss me.”

Clint pulls her head forward, meeting her lips, and smiles against her skin.


End file.
